The Joker's Last Laugh
by The Lilac Pilgrim
Summary: I know this story's been done; I just didn't like it the first time around. The Joker finds out something terrible, and in his desperation plans the biggest, most memorable crime in all of history to ensure that he can make his mark.


The dank, stale air in the room was getting to him as he worked away with what little he had here, moving on constantly only due to fear of what would happen if he didn't. A breeze made its way past the desk at which he was seated, making the experience more bearable, even if it was just for a count of six seconds.

"Doctor," strained a voice from the other side of the room, firm, but nonetheless tainted with a hint of… some alien emotion. "I'm still waiting."

The young man cringed to hear the voice, but turned uncomfortably to face its owner. For a moment, upon his eyes meeting those of the voice's master, it seemed he would be unable to form words, guttural fragments being pronounced but little sense being made. It wouldn't bode well for him if he didn't speak up soon.

"I'm sorry," he finally managed to choke out on that thought. " It's very difficult to see without a good source of light."

"That's not good enough to me."

Footsteps could be heard now, gentle, but urgent… a sense of desperation filled the room, breathing was accelerated… the man in the shadows was pacing. He was worried. The sound of the stepping as he paced seemed to be accompanied by another, faint sound not unlike that of a heartbeat. It was surreal, considering the identity of the man in the shadows. The young man found an odd satisfaction in the experience, smirking as he continued looking through the paperwork in front of him.

"Oh dear…"

The footsteps stopped for a brief moment. The silence was sweet nectar to the doctor, who allowed his eyes to close, his mouth a visible sign of ecstasy. But then, the footsteps continued, and they were louder, more forceful, and they were approaching him. A hand grabbed his collar; he yelped out loud as he was brought unceremoniously face to face with a panicked man, an evil man, a man who by all rights should have been dead by now.

The Joker.

"What do you mean, 'oh dear'?" the chalk faced jester demanded in a shrill tone, nose touching the doctor's as he gripped him close. "What is that supposed to mean?!"

"It - it means," the captive stammered, terrified for his own life, quivering as moss green eyes stared angrily into his. "You're dying!"

THUD. The doctor felt himself hit the ground. The Joker had let go.

"Dying?"

He watched in amazement as the news caused the colourfully clad clown to stumble back, grasping firmly onto a chair for stability. He was taking the news as any man would. He was panicked, shocked, _emotional_.

"I'm… dying?" His face was even more twisted than usual, the red, red lips contorted into an uncomfortable grimace, his expression one of utter despair. It looked entirely painful, the feelings were probably eating him inside out. The younger man couldn't help but smile, just faintly. The great Joker was in agony.

"How?" came the voice, neutral, quiet. Still adjusting to the shock.

"It's cancer," he responded, watching the defeated villain's face cringe at the words, straining against the permanent grin frozen into his countenance. "It's completely engulfed your brain. You won't have long to live, and chemotherapy will only work to extend your life for a short amount of time."

The once terrifying Joker buried his face in his hands. He wasn't quite ready for the depression stage yet, but he was definitely feeling something… Snuffling sounds indicated crying, but even the inexperienced doctor could tell that there were no tears. It was almost as though the maniac were actually talking to himself, possibly trying to create an atmosphere of comfort that he wouldn't get from anyone other than himself. This was brilliant. The Clown Prince of Crime was cracking.

"Cancer?" he spoke out loud, his voice still neutral, but getting louder, probably through fear. "Everyone dies of _cancer_ nowadays. Why do I have to? Why me? It's not even _funny_."

"What does that matter?" the younger man blasted, barely concealing the smug superiority he was feeling over dying man. "Nothing you do now will matter; you're dying! Gotham will no longer fear you. Batman will no longer waste time on you. One more cell free at Arkham for someone who can change."

An angry glint flashed in The Joker's eye as he looked over at the doctor, who was so close to laughter now he was finding it hard to hide it.

"Is that so?"

Harsh laughter rang through the darkness, sharp and victorious. Natural causes would defeat The Joker finally; it was terribly ironic. The maniac's eyes betrayed his feelings, humiliation and frustration showing in the attempted scowl at the cheek of the man who'd dared to tell him that he was dying. _Lies, it has to be._

"No, doctor," he growled, rising to his feet, standing tall and fierce, his maniacal smile returning as he moved past shock and into denial. "There's only one man here who is dying."

The pinprick of a tiny syringe stung the doctor's neck as the villain gripped it, watching in delight as the young man's face so _painfully_ contorted into a wide, forceful and red-lipped grin. Laughing at him like that; now he'd have something to really smile about.

"Such a waste," he tutted gleefully as the clown-faced corpse fell stiffly to the ground. "My lovely floors will be stained. But I suppose it can't be helped."

The sound of insane cackling echoed around the room as he turned and left, starting to go through the second of the seven stages of grief: denial.


End file.
